


Sick

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Comfortember 2020 [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Caring James Wilson (House M.D.), Comfortember 2020, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Greg House and James Wilson Being in Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, Light Whump, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sick Character, Sick Greg House, Sickfic, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27335773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: The way Wilson immediately softens is enough to make House roll his eyes. The concern is back, all traces of disapproval having vanished. But this time there's something else there, something else House recognizes well. It's his 'oh my god you poor baby, I'm gonna take care of you' expression, and dear god it's one battle House knows he's not going to be able to win today.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: Comfortember 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995943
Comments: 9
Kudos: 121
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> For day one of Comfortember! I was gonna do 'rescue' but when I saw 'sick character' I couldn't resist the opportunity for some sick!House and caring!Wilson and so here we are, enjoy the Hilson one-shot XD

Gregory House doesn't get _sick._

Well, perhaps it depends on your definition of sick. He's been _sick_ once, twice, maybe three times the past _year._ Occasionally, sure, come winter he gets a case of the sniffles and coughs a few times into his sleeve. Those days, maybe he packs an extra scarf and bundles up a little more, because he doesn't like the feeling of a tingling nose and a sore throat. And being a doctor, he knows better than to expose himself to potential illnesses. He's had shots, he takes precautions. Those few times a year he does get sick, it's nothing more serious than a cold. Lasts about two to three days, and then it's over. During those days, he doesn't even bother to stay home; he carries a tiny pocket-box of tissues with him and blows his nose when he has to. Sometimes he mixes up a few homemade remedies for his throat, usually consisting of large amounts of honey. Vicodin would knock it out, but swallowing pills with a swollen throat… yeah.

House doesn't get sick. He doesn't run a fever over 99.8. He doesn't get headaches and sore muscles (beyond his leg, of course) that pin him to his bed in the morning. So you can imagine his surprise when he wakes up one fateful Monday morning, drenched in his own sweat and shivering at the same time, with a headache that damn near makes his leg feel _amazing_ in comparison. He can't even move at first, like his arms are pinned down. When he does manage to lift his hand, he settles it over his forehead and practically flinches at the pure _heat_ he feels.

God, he's burning up. Along with that, everything is blurry and unsteady and he can't really think - he's not unfamiliar with feeling hazy, and cloudy, but he's not used to _this_ kind of cloudy.

Dragging his hand down his face slowly, the diagnostician lets out a low, guttural groan. His hand falls to the bed beside him, fingers curling loosely into the blanket wrapped around him. He's hot enough to want to kick it off, but he can't really move. So for a moment he just lays there and _imagines_ ripping the blanket off of him, feeling the cool air - and then it hits him.

The window. He left the damn _window_ open.

When he finally drags himself out of bed, it's not without a few more grunts and groans and mumbled curse words. He pops two Vicodin the moment he's in a sitting position, and almost chokes due to the unexpected pain in his throat the moment the muscles contract to swallow. It feels like he's swallowing razors; the pills go down without much of a fuss otherwise, but it doesn't feel like that for a few seconds, and he quickly decides against taking the third one he'd been twirling around in his hand. It rattles in the bottle with the others, and he tucks it away on his nightstand, because he knows he's probably not going to be taking any more right then.

He can feel the congestion in his chest as he inhales a lungful of the cold, crisp morning air. It should feel good considering how hot he is, but it just feels like more knives in his throat. He can't bite back a cough in time, feeling the mucus stirring in his chest as he does. He can't believe this, he genuinely can't believe this. Sneezes are more common the few times he does get sick, and when the problem _is_ in his chest or throat, sometimes he feels the need to clear it and cough; he's never, _ever_ coughed like this before, hard enough to feel something _move._

With slow, careful steps without his cane, House makes his way to the window. The floor is slick with water just below the windowsill, and the thin layer of snow dusting the grass outside makes him grimace. The one night he forgets to shut the damn window. Of course it has to _snow._

He slams it shut unnecessarily hard, and locks it just for good measure. Then he stumbles back into his room, gathering his cane and some fresh clothes to take a bath and change into. But he ends up checking his fever before he does anything, because the migraine is _significantly_ worse now despite having just taken Vicodin, and he's feeling hotter by the second. Admittedly, upon reading the numbers initially, he has to recheck it a few times before coming to terms with what he sees. After the fifth time, he discards the thermometer on the nightstand and just sits there for a second, staring down at it. The numbers blink back up at him, almost tauntingly. _101.2_

Anxiety stirs in his gut, a fluttering, fleeting feeling. He's quick to dismiss it, gathering his clothes up and stumbling into the bathroom to hop into the bathtub. He remembers once, a long time ago, when he was younger - he had gotten sick, but it wasn't his own fault, it wasn't even _winter's_ fault. If anything, his father was to blame for it. He was the one who had filled the bathtub up with water and ice-cubes and forced him inside in the middle of the night. He was the one who shoved barely-eight-years-old House outside during the winter with little more than the thinnest scarf in the house and a torn, skinny jacket with holes in it to keep him warm. It was no surprise to his father when House ended up with a fever only a few days later, but the man had merely rolled his eyes and grumbled something along the lines of 'pathetic' while his mother swaddled him in blankets and warm chicken-noodle soup, and spoonfed him honey and the orange, liquid Ibuprofen that always tasted good, but used to burn his throat on the way down.

It was the first and last time he got sick like that. The next time his father made him sleep outside, his mother was quick to retrieve him the split second their bedroom light went out.

But Gregory House doesn't get sick… not anymore.

He exhales a shuddering breath, snapped back to the present by the sound of the water running before he even realizes that he'd turned the knob. He's quick to adjust it to his liking - despite really wanting to take a cold bath, he knows better than to douse himself in freezing water right then. So he settles for lukewarm, waiting a moment to let the water settle before he strips and climbs into the tub ever so slowly, adjusting his right leg to his liking and letting it submerge completely in the warm water. It's only then that he realizes how much it's been hurting, how much the headache has been taking away from, but the water's quick to settle the cramps again. Tenderly, he brushes a cautious hand across the scar, then simply lets his hand settle against his thigh as he leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes slip shut.

He sits there for a while, and starts a little when the phone starts ringing from the other room. A sharp inhale draws a strangled cough from his lips, raspy and hoarse, and his chest tingles in response. The phone quickly escapes his attention, and instead he finds himself sitting up a little more, one hand over his mouth now as he coughs - and coughs - and _coughs._

By the time he finishes up, dries off and gets dressed and makes his way to his living room, he's still coughing. And sneezing. And his throat hurts now more than it did when he was younger - and for the first time in a very, very long time, Gregory House aches for his mother. He aches for those wool blankets that she used to wrap around his shoulders. He aches for the mixture of honey and Ibuprofen she had given him. He aches for the damn chicken-noodle soup, even though the smell had made his stomach churn and his throat had burned while he ate it. Or maybe he just aches; his muscles, his bones, his arms and legs and his _head_ and everything…

House sinks into the sofa and reclines backwards without a second thought, and winces when the phone rings again. He doesn't attempt to get up, however, as it sings its tune. Just twists and pulls his leg up onto the couch with him and turns his head to look toward the phone. It stops after a while, replaying his own voicemail message to the quiet apartment, and then he hears Cuddy's voice. " _House, come on, you're already an hour later than usual. If you're nursing a hangover or something, get over it. You have a patient, and your team can't do anything if…"_

He lets his head sink against the back of the couch, and heaves out a quiet sigh to himself. This isn't the first time Cuddy's called him like this, trying to coax him to come into work. Usually, however, instead of being held down by a headache, a case of the sniffles and a bad cough, it's usually his leg that keeps him from coming in. He feels even more pathetic now - at least having a chunk of muscle missing from his leg, which hurts like a bitch _significantly_ worse some days than others, is a valid excuse to skip work every now and again (even if it doesn't feel like it at the time), but somehow being a useless cripple hurts a little less than being a useless _sick_ cripple. But he knows he can't come into work like this, as bad as he is. Nobody wants a sick doctor, and House honestly doesn't want to deal with the stares he's going to receive when he comes into work sneezing his head off. He's better off dealing with this at home, by himself.

He waits until she finishes off her offers of cutting his clinic hours in half - and then until she gets angry and threatens to _double_ them - and then until she finally hangs up out of pure frustration. Then he heaves himself up off of the couch, which takes _tremendous_ effort, and shuffles into the kitchen. He doesn't want to eat anything right now, but with his throat hurting the way it is, he figures he might as well mix up that remedy. He just hopes he has enough honey for this.

Before long, he's seated on the couch again sipping from one of his tiny shot glasses while Wilson speaks to him through the phone. He's significantly less angry than Cuddy is - hell, he sounds more concerned than anything. " _House? You there? Who am I kidding, of course you're there… listen, I'm coming to check on you, so you better not be with a hooker. Or still sleeping."_ House can't help but feel somewhat _alarmed_ at the idea of seeing Wilson like this - of Wilson seeing _him_ like this - but before he has the chance to leap off of the couch and grab the phone, he hears the _click_ as Wilson hangs up, and it doesn't take him long to settle back into the couch, defeated and a little more than frustrated. He finishes off the rest of the honey remedy, sighing.

The soreness in his throat lets up a little, but not much. But it's enough for him to feel comfortable with taking another Vicodin, which only knocks the headache out by about 10%.

He's just debating on what to do about Wilson, considering just not letting him in. A coughing fit throws his thought process off, and a few knocks at the door throw _that_ off - if only for a second. He's still coughing by the time the knocks slow and stop completely, struggling to gasp in even the slightest gulp of air to make his lungs start aching. He feels like he's about to pass out from oxygen deprivation - and it doesn't really help matters when, after the diagnostician finally manages to calm himself down into less of a _cough_ and more… clearing his throat, Wilson calls through the door, sounding even more worried than he had over the phone, "House…? I can hear you coughing-" _Yeah, I'm sure all of Princeton can,_ House quips back silently, stifling another cough with his sleeve as he pushes himself to sit up. "Are you okay? Are you… sick?"

Wilson sounds about as dubious as House feels. The doctor doesn't answer until he manages to get up on his feet and shuffles to the door, knowing full well Wilson isn't going to leave him alone until he gives him some kind of reassurance that he's okay. The thought should annoy him, and he's going to pretend that he's annoyed, but truthfully, he's not, really. He kind of likes how Wilson worries about him, how he… fears for him. It's just proof that someone cares. And sure, that's Wilson's biggest problem - the fact that he cares - but House can't get enough of it.

"I don't get sick," he answers as he opens the door. An obvious lie. The irony isn't lost on him.

Wilson takes one look at him and shakes his head. "You're _sick."_ Still dubious, still shocked. House doesn't have the chance to close the door on him before he's squeezing himself inside, and the cripple can only stare at the empty hallway for a moment before turning to watch him.

Then, finally, with a grunt, House pushes the door shut without turning, steadying himself on his cane as Wilson takes in his apartment, the open Vicodin bottle and the empty glass on the coffee table. "It's nothing," he grumbles. Because it is nothing, despite his discomfort, the uneasiness, the anxiety he still can't quite stifle. He doesn't like feeling like this, but Wilson doesn't need to know that. Grunting again, this time with the effort it takes to force himself to move, the diagnostician makes his way back to the couch and plops down again. The cushions fold around him at once, dipping beneath his weight and wrapping around him like an embrace. "Left a window open last night, woke up with the sniffles. I'm not dying or anything, so…"

Wilson frowns back at him, eyebrows creasing together faintly. It's that look he gets, House knows, when he's facing one of his patients. It's the look that means 'something's wrong with you and I'm worried so I'm gonna be an insufferable bastard for the rest of the day because I am contractually obligated to care'. Then he gestures toward the glass on the table, without breaking eye contact with House. "So then this wasn't like, a 'one last drink' kind of thing…"

House arches an eyebrow at him despite himself, somewhat bemused. "If it was, do you really think there would be a small glass sitting there as opposed to the biggest bottle I have?" He retorts skeptically, but not without a flicker of genuine amusement. Wilson just frowns back at him in a clearly disapproving manner, so House decides he might as well elaborate. "Relax, Mommy. It's not alcohol. I fixed up some honey and stuff because my throat was killing me."

The way Wilson immediately softens is enough to make House roll his eyes. The concern is back, all traces of disapproval having vanished. But this time there's something else there, something else House recognizes well. It's his 'oh my god you poor baby, I'm gonna take care of you' expression, and dear god it's one battle House knows he's not going to be able to win today. Not that he's not tempted to try, but Wilson doesn't exactly give him the chance. He's quicker to react than House - who, in his defense, is sick and a little slow at the moment - and he's already scooping up the empty glass before House has the chance to tell him not to bother. "Well, judging by the fact that it sounds like your voice box just went through a cheese grater, I think it's safe to say it didn't work. Just sit tight, I'll get you something to ease the pain a little."

House's eyebrows raise faintly, opening his mouth, but Wilson's already disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him alone on the couch to deal with the fact that his best friend will be fussing over him like a mother hen today. He's not going to coddle him in blankets and spoonfeed him medicine, but… he's there. House can't really deny the fact that he likes that, at least to himself. At the very least, he can live with this. So, with a sigh, he sinks back and rubs his nose a few times to rid himself of the ever-present tingling of a sneeze he can feel building, and lifts his gaze to the lightbulb on the ceiling, peering through the cover toward the light and ignoring the pain that sears through his eyeballs and his head in response until the tingling goes away.

Wilson returns quickly from the kitchen, but only to leave the apartment with the swift promise that he'll return as soon as he can. It's only about half an hour later that he barges right back in, loaded with bags; House can't help but stare as he drops them all on the coffee table, sifting through until he finds a thermometer and a smaller, paper bag House recognizes from the drug store just up the road. He catches the thermometer when it's tossed to him, but wrinkles his nose as he removes it from the case and peels one of the covers onto it. "I have one of these," he grumbles, popping it in his mouth. He doesn't think anything's changed. He still feels _cloudy_.

"It's a more accurate read than the one you have," Wilson explains, pulling out a few bags of cough drops and what looks like a box of lollipops. "I got you these grape throat-numbing suckers. Since I know you like…" He gestures slightly in House's direction, taking advantage of the fact that he can't speak around the thermometer in his mouth to say what he _really_ wants to say in response to that, "they're apparently really good for sore throats. I also got something to take the congestion down, but I didn't know if you had a runny nose or a stuffy nose so I just got bottles for both. And I picked up some cans of chicken-noodle soup while I was out, and I-" At this, House pretty much rips the thermometer out of mouth - just in time, as it starts beeping to signal that it's done anyway, and stares for a moment as Wilson reaches out to take it from him.

He doesn't really know what to say, so he can only ask, "why?"

"It helps a lot with stuff like this, trust me," Wilson explains, frowning at the thermometer for a few moments. "100.4… I guess it's not that bad, but still. I'll give you the stuff for the fever first." He's quick to set the thermometer aside, digging through the bags for said medicine. House just continues to stare, feeling a little more unnerved - but this time, not quite in a 'bad' way…

He watches for a moment longer, as Wilson gets the medicine ready, before something else occurs to him. "100.4 is pretty bad for someone who never gets fevers…" He arches an eyebrow at his best friend, and Wilson pauses slightly, doing a swift doubletake in his direction.

"Right. Yeah-" Wilson huffs out a laugh, but there's little humor in his tone. He doesn't meet House's gaze for a while after that, pretending to be focused on what he's doing. "Well, I guess it's pretty bad for you. Don't worry, though, fevers are usually pretty easy to take down. Uh, give me a moment- I'm gonna get some of this chicken-noodle soup cooking. Take this, it should help with the fever and your nose. I'll give you the other stuff for your throat in a minute." He practically thrusts the medicine at him in the most gentle way possible, and House takes it somewhat reluctantly - not because he doesn't want to take the medicine, but because he doesn't want the conversation to end quite so soon. But he takes it after a second and Wilson slips out of the room with one of the cans, bouncing it nervously from one hand to the other.

What he's been given doesn't look like anything he's ever had before. It's not the orange liquid Ibuprofen his mother used to give him, but it's in liquid form, and it's red, and it has a _really_ strong smell that lets him know it's gonna be a bitch to swallow. It also has an almost peppermint-y taste to it when he finally tilts the cup to his lips to drink it, and at first, he almost finds himself gagging. but he's quick to swallow it down regardless, and ends up silently cursing Wilson for a moment for not giving him anything to wash it down with, because it's _disgusting._

By the time Wilson returns, with a bowl full of steaming hot chicken-noodle soup and a glass of what House initially assumes to be water, the diagnostician's sniffles are almost gone and his fever is the least of his concerns; the headache has finally begun to ebb away, though admittedly he doesn't quite notice until his leg starts throbbing. But it's a tolerable kind of pain, the constant kind of ache he's long gotten used to at this point, nothing like the cramps he gets every so often that practically paralyze him. So, despite the pain, he manages to push himself to sit up enough to reach for the bowl - except Wilson doesn't hand it to him right away, instead choosing to set it down on the coffee table along with the glass. Then he peels the cover off of the thermometer and replaces it with a new one before handing it back. "Here, check again."

House glares for a moment, but he does as told, and Wilson waits in silence before the thermometer beeps again. He takes it without giving House a chance to look at it first, but that's fine with him, because he trades it for the chicken-noodle soup instead. For a moment, House just holds the bowl in his hands, staring down at it and watching the steam curl up to his face. It's the smell that takes him back, to what now feels like a simpler time, despite everything else. "Well, it went down a little. 99.9 - that's good," Wilson comments, putting the thermometer down again and flicking his gaze back up to House once more. "Is your throat still bothering you?"

House shrugs in response, lifting a spoonful of noodles and pieces of chicken to his mouth. He doesn't bother blowing on it before he takes a bite - it's not that hot, and he figures the sting in the back of his throat is more so due to the taste than anything else. It's easy to swallow down, being mostly noodles and liquid. He doesn't know how to feel about the _warmth_ it gives him.

"I'll give you one of the suckers when you finish eating," Wilson sighs, and frowns at him for a moment. Fortunately, however, his phone tears his attention away from his assessment.

"What you should be doing is going to work," House grumbles pointedly, as Wilson seems to pout at his phone for a few moments before hitting decline on the call. His best friend doesn't say anything for a moment, turning the phone around in his hands a few times - then, finally, with a steady sigh, he turns it back around and swipes his fingers over the screen, tapping out a quick text to who House can only assume is Cuddy, if Wilson's next words are any indication.

"I'll tell Cuddy I took the day off to help you out. She'll understand," his friend offers distractedly, and House opens his mouth slightly to express his doubt about that, but ends up pausing again. Actually, considering Wilson was _Wilson_ , he wouldn't be surprised if she did understand. Usually it was just him not coming into work, even though he typically had a valid reason for not showing up. Now was one of those times. Hopefully, though, if Wilson does tell her that he's sick - despite the blow to his pride - she'll rescind her threat of doubling his clinic hours. He can't help but smirk to himself at that, scooping up a few more spoonfuls of the soup to continue eating.

Wilson settles in beside him while he finishes the soup off. Neither of them say anything for a while, but it's House who ends up breaking the silence. The cloudiness in his head had started to clear, but now it seems to have returned with a vengeance. "I think the fever came back…" The diagnostician pauses, briefly, to suck in a breath through his teeth. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like getting sick, he doesn't like _feeling_ sick. The only thing he 'likes' about the situation is the fact that Wilson is there catering to him, but even then he can't help but feel pathetic. Still, dutiful and concerned, Wilson replaces the cover on the thermometer again and they wait a little while after House finishes off the soup to check again. Sure enough, it's back up, now to 102.0.

"That's not good," Wilson frets, setting the thermometer down to check House's head himself, by pressing his wrist against the other man's forehead. He's too worried, himself, to pull away from him at first - he does, however, do so when he continues, "you might need to go to the hospital."

"No way, Wilson…"

Wilson's voice is warning, but still worried, "if we can't get your fever down-"

"I am _not_ going into the clinic as a patient. I don't even like going into the clinic as a doctor," House snaps before Wilson can finish, leveling a furious glare in his direction and hoping his best friend will get the hint and leave it alone. He does, but not without a glare of his own, since House knows he needs to express exactly how much he disapproves of his stubbornness. "Besides, as much medicine as you have here, there's nothing a hospital can do that _you_ can't."

Once again, he watches Wilson soften, if only for a moment. Then he starts, remembering something, and reaches across the table to grab the box of throat-numbing suckers. "Fine…"

Nothing too significant happens as the day progresses. Cuddy leaves him another message, this time saying how she hopes he feels better soon. That's followed up by Cameron, who worriedly asks if House needs anything until Wilson finally picks up the phone to gently explain to her that he's got it handled, while House rolls his eyes in the background and resists the urge to yell out that he needs someone to free him from the clutches of Wilson's caretaking. Then Chase leaves a message, and he's somewhat surprised when even Foreman calls to say that, despite being a little surprised and _definitely_ skeptical about the validity of House being sick, they have the patient covered and House can rest easy for the day and focus on getting better.

He won't admit it, he'd never admit it, but something about that tickles him. The fact that they care enough to do something as trivial as call to check in on how he is after hearing he's sick - as if they care, as if they _could._ He'd like to believe that they do. That they can. It's… nice.

His fever fluctuates, rising and falling, and Wilson treats him with proper medication every few hours to keep it at bay. He gives him more soup, makes him drink Ginger Ale, and eventually retrieves House's blanket from his room when the man starts shivering. Honestly, he's a little more than amused by the way Wilson's fussing over him today. He's seen him worried about him, worrying about him is practically a part of his personality, but he's never seen him like _this_. He likes it, but that's just another thing that he's not going to admit. Not out loud. Not to anyone.

Before long, it's getting late. They're in the middle of an early-season episode of Law & Order when Wilson finally decides it's bedtime, since House's fever had skyrocketed and he could barely keep his head up to watch. House isn't sure what happens in the time it takes Wilson to move him to his bedroom, but he ends up curled up on his bed, wrapped in his blanket, while his friend places a glass of Ginger Ale and an unopened throat-numbing sucker on his nightstand. Then he mumbles something in the darkness, something that sounds like 'goodnight', something with such an air of finality to it, something that's _definitely_ a parting word, something that, briefly, makes House wonder if he's leaving for the night - and he panics.

Wilson starts when House wraps his hand around his wrist, before the man can turn away completely. House isn't sure what he says, or if he even says anything. But, before long, Wilson pulls away and edges around to the other side of the bed, climbing up beside him carefully. House is too out of it to think about the situation, the fact that Wilson's in his bed right now, and he's definitely too accurate to make any jokes about it. That'll have to wait until morning comes.

But he's not too out of it to roll over just enough to face Wilson. He's burning up, but the warmth radiating from his best friend makes him want to move closer. So, he does. Wilson peers at him through the darkness, concern and confusion evident in the furrow of his brow and the frown tugging at his lips as he curls his arm over the pillow and rests his head on it. House shuffles closer to him, close enough to feel Wilson's warmth himself, close enough that he can feel every gentle breath he exhales through his nose. Close enough to drink in his scent. He's always liked the way Wilson smells, like cinnamon and rain. It's a sweet smell, and it makes his nose tingle. The brief whiff he gets makes him want more, but he knows better than to move closer at this point, even with his senses askew and his mind too clouded to really _think_ about what he does.

Wilson gazes at him and House's eyes are drawn to his lips. He wonders if he tastes like cinnamon and rain, too. It's not the first time he wants to kiss Wilson and it won't be the last, and it's not the first time he doesn't act on these impulses. Briefly, he considers it solely because he knows he'll have a valid excuse if he does, but he also really doesn't want an excuse to kiss his best friend, he just wants to do it. He purses his lips in a frown and flicks his gaze back up to Wilson's - whose eyes are just a little bit lower than House's - but he's quick to look up again and meet House's gaze. He shifts, subtly closer, but doesn't move again yet after that.

House wants to thank him for taking care of him today. Instead, turning his face toward Wilson and simultaneously burying his head into the pillow beneath him, he mumbles another concern that had been lingering in the back of his mind today, "why'd you bring chicken-noodle soup?" He doesn't know why he didn't ask earlier, when he really wanted to. He doesn't really want to talk about chicken-noodle soup. He wants to talk about how soft Wilson's lips look tonight, and whether or not he would think it was weird if House wanted to taste them, just a little bit.

When Wilson speaks, he's so close that House can smell the egg salad sandwiches he had for dinner on his breath, and he can't help but want to taste that too. "My mother used to keep a whole cabinet stocked with cans," he whispers back, hushed as if afraid someone else might hear. It's kind of silly, considering they're alone in House's apartment. He doesn't say that, though the thought does incredible things to the doctor's stomach, a series of twists and flips that he likens to the feeling of being on a roller coaster. He can't help but smile to himself, half-listening as Wilson goes on, "I used to get sick all the time… every other week." He huffs out a quiet laugh, and House drinks in the nostalgia that comes with it. "So she'd… she'd wrap me up in one of those fuzzy bathrobes and give me a bowl of chicken-noodle soup and Ginger Ale and sit me down in front of the television to watch my favorite cartoons all day long."

House smiles again, nothing to do with the fluttering in his chest. He's suddenly very aware of his feelings for Wilson, and also very aware of how much this admission makes him want to cuddle up closer to him and wrap him in a hug and fall asleep like that, together. Testily, he scoots forward on the bed a little bit, breathing out without his permission, "me too."

Wilson raises his head a little, propped up on his arm, then lowers it again. He says nothing about House steadily easing closer to him, which makes the man brave enough to continue.

"Not cartoons," he adds for Wilson's benefit. "It was a one-time thing… I don't get sick. Never get sick," the last three words come in a whisper, and House pretends not to notice when Wilson shuffles a little closer to be able to hear him. "But I was, once… Mom gave me chicken-noodle soup, and honey, and…" He trails off, a moment of clarity rendering him silent for a second. Wilson's just staring at him, staring with such intensity that he feels like he's at the center of the universe, the only thing he sees, the only thing he wants to see. There's something soft in his gaze, softer than usual, but House isn't sure how. Clarity is lost on him once again, but maybe it's not the fever this time, maybe it's just that those caramel brown eyes make him feel weak. "... I don't like being sick," he mumbles. "I like that you were here, though."

Wilson's lips twitch, stealing House's attention for a moment. And then, suddenly, he's so _close_ \- right there, the distance between them closed off until House can't breathe, think, move. He can just smell, and all he smells is cinnamon and raindrops. He drinks it in greedily with each breath he takes, and Wilson reaches out to rest his hand over House's shoulder under the guise of smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket. House doesn't mind. "You're welcome. Now go to sleep."

"Yeah… m'kinda tired." House continues to stare for a while, only closing his eyes when they become too heavy to hold them open. Wilson's hand is still on his shoulder, heavy and warm and comforting, and even though he still feels like crap, he feels content enough to fall asleep. "'Night, Wilson."

"'Night, House," Wilson whispers back, soft and hushed. "Sweet dreams."


End file.
